


Let It Grow

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst, Connor owns a florists, Disabled Character, Faeries - Freeform, Fair Folk, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Romance, fey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Hank finds himself both frightened and intrigued by the florist. That's love, baby.





	Let It Grow

**Author's Note:**

> WHEN!! WILL!! Y'ALL!! STOP!! MY!! SINFUL!! HAND!!!
> 
> DO I HAVE TOO MANY WIPS? YES.
> 
> DOES MEAIKU KEEP GIVING ME AMAZING IDEAS AND HELP ME FLESH OUT MY OWN? YES.
> 
> DO I LOVE ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING ABOUT FEY CONNOR? YES.
> 
> IS THE TITLE A FROZEN PUN? NO.

Hank smacks his alarm off the moment it starts to beep. He’s been awake for hours now, just staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to be awake, doesn’t want to get up and face the world, but he has to. He can hide as much as he wants, but it won’t make him feel any better.  

 

Sumo paws at he bedroom door, whining softly, and Hank can’t ignore him in good conscience. So he hauls himself upright, swinging his leg round off the bed onto the floor, leaning on one hand as he reaches for the prosthetic tossed carelessly onto the floor. He clips it into place below his left knee, sighing heavily as he stands. It still twinges now and then, but not as badly as the memory itself.  

 

He opens the door and scritches Sumo’s eats softly, heading into the kitchen to put down fresh food and water. He boils the kettle for coffee, spoons in six sugars, no milk, sits at the kitchen table in silence as he drinks it. This is his routine now. This is his empty existence.  

 

Sumo rests his head on Hank’s thigh with a soft  _boof_ , because dogs always know. He rubs his head softly with a sigh.  

 

“You gonna help me today, buddy?” Hank asks. “We’ve got some stuff to do. You in?” 

 

Sumo boofs again, gazing up at Hank adoringly.  

 

“Alright, you can come.” 

 

He washes up and dresses, tugging on his thick coat and clipping Sumo’s leash to his collar before heading out into the early winter morning. It’s dark and frigid, but Hank doesn’t mind so much. It feels more peaceful like this.  

 

They head into town through side streets and shortcuts Hank knows well, avoiding the main thoroughfare to keep away from the steadily growing crowds, and because Hank can’t manage long distances as well as he used to. Sumo trots along happily by his side, a comfort on this dismal day. 

 

Two years and three hundred and sixty-four days have passed and still the pain is as sharp as it ever was. Tomorrow it will be so bad he can barely breathe. The anniversary of Cole’s death. The day their car skidded on a patch of black ice and Hank lost his son and his left leg.  

Three years is a long time to grieve. The occupational health therapist said it would get easier with time. It didn’t. It hasn’t. The physical therapy was hell, but it kept his mind occupied. And now that he isn’t a cop, he’s got nothing to fill his days with. Nothing to do, all the time in the world to just... Mope. 

 

But this isn’t living. It’s existing, and Hank hates it. He’s never been a passive kind of guy, and just rolling over and accepting the shit hand fate dealt him just doesn’t sit right with him anymore. 

 

So he made his decision. Tomorrow, on October 11th, three years after the accident, he’s going to take flowers and visit Cole’s grave for the first time. 

 

Hence why he’s outside before 9 AM on a Saturday. In October.  

 

He shivers and heads down the street, pausing in front of a florist he’s seen many times but never gone into. He’s never needed to. He’s not really a flower-buying kind of guy. But this place is too dark, too sombre. It looks like it caters most specifically to funeral arrangements. Hank supresses a shudder and moves on. 

 

The next is all gilt and gold, windows full of orchids, lilies and other regal flowers Hank can’t hope to name. It looks expensive and impersonal. Hank doesn’t go inside. 

 

He passes two more that just aren’t quite what he’s looking for. He wants something personal, understated but thoughtful. It’s a shame the market is only in town through the summer, because Cole used to love the different colours in the flower stalls. He winces and rubs his chest at the memory. Sumo bumps his legs with a faint whine. 

 

“I’m okay, boy,” he murmurs. “Come on, let’s keep looking. If we can’t find a good one, we’ll stop for coffee. I’ll get you something nice.” Sumo boofs happily. 

 

They carry on, Hank feeling worse by the minute, cold and miserable, and his leg aches with the winter chill. He considers just giving the whole thing up and heading home in defeat. 

 

Sumo barks loudly and Hank looks up. 

 

A tiny little florists he’s never seen before, windows full to bursting with all the colours of the rainbow, plants blooming even when they have no right to be in winter. The wooden panels are painted a soft, light green, and a delicate sign hangs above it, handpainted with care. 

 

 _The Little Deviant._  

 

Cute name. A bit odd, but.. The shop is kind of adorable. 

 

Inside looks warm and inviting. It looks loved and cared for. It looks  _perfect._  

 

Hank steps inside. A little bell rings above the doorway. 

 

A young man steps out from the back, a little apron tied round his waist. He smiles warmly and Hank is immediately at east, even though he’s come here for flowers to lay on a tiny grave. 

 

But there’s something... Strange. About this man. 

 

His ears are ever so slightly pointed at the tips. His brown eyes seem to actually sparkle. His smile is too enticing, too warm. His skin is so pale it’s almost lilac. 

 

“Hello!” He says cheerfully, stepping up to a desk with an antique cash register. “How can I help you today? Oh!" He beams down at Sumo with a happy smile. "Hello, there! And what's your name?" He crouches down to pet Sumo who soaks up the attention like a sponge.

 

"It's-" Hank starts to say, but the man cuts him off.

 

"Sumo. What a fitting name." He scratches Sumo's jowls. "A lovely boy." He stands and Sumo flops onto his side like he's been entranced. "And how can I help you?"

 

His voice sounds like sun-warmed honey. 

 

Hank swallows. “I... I’d like a bouquet of flowers for my son.” 

 

“How lovely,” the man says, reaching for a notepad from... Nowhere? It wasn’t there a moment ago, almost like he plucked it from thin air. 

 

Which of course, he couldn’t have done. That’s not possible. 

 

“Not really,” Hank says, taking a slow step towards the counter. It’s so warm in here he has to shrug off his coat. “My son passed... Three years ago tomorrow. I want to take them to his grave.” 

 

The man’s smile disappears. Sympathy fills those soft brown eyes. It doesn’t sting like pity does. hank is almost grateful. 

 

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the man says. He has a name tag that Hank can’t read. He tries to focus on the letters but they seem to coil and move across the plastic. 

 

Which, obviously, can’t be true. 

 

Hank is just flustered and a little overheated. 

 

That must be it. 

 

“I think I have just the thing,” the man says, scribbling frantically in his notepad. 

 

“If you could describe your son in three words?” 

 

An unusual request. Hank takes a moment to think. “Bright,” he says after a long moment. “Honest. Sweet.” 

 

“Lovely. Thank you.” He finishes scribbling and retrieves a heavy, arcane tome from under the desk. Something about it makes Hank uneasy, but at the same time he can’t look away. 

 

The man opens the book and starts flipping through the age-yellowed pages. Hank glimpses botanical sketches, detailed notes in a language he can’t understand. The man runs his fingers delicately over the pages. 

 

“Gladioli,” he says softly. “Sincerity.” He turns the page. “Pink carnation. Remembrance. Orange blossom. Innocence. Poppies. Eternal sleep. White chrysanthemum. Truth and honesty. Yellow tulips, for the sunshine in his smile.” He looks up at Hank. “Is this acceptable?” 

 

For a long moment, Hank can’t speak. He’d never considered the meaning flowers could have before. He never realised he could make this gesture more heartfelt. Something about the idea gives him peace. 

 

“Yeah,” he says faintly. “That sounds... That sounds perfect.” 

 

The man smiles at him. “I’ll start right away. Perhaps I could add cyclamen? I feel as though that may help ease your pain.” 

 

“What does that symbolise?” 

 

“Good-bye.” 

 

Hank takes an unsteady breath. Closure. It’s what he wants. He doesn’t want to be haunted by this anymore. He just wants peace. 

 

“That’s great. Thanks.” 

 

“Be careful with your thank you’s,” the man says cryptically. “A lesser person than myself might take advantage of that.” 

 

Hank doesn’t understand what that means, but some part of him tells him he should take the warning very seriously. 

 

“Would you like to wait?” The man gestures to a small back area that half resembles a kitchenette. Tiled and homey, like it belongs in a country cottage. “I could make you some coffee if you like?” 

 

“That’s very kind of you,” Hank begins, but something sharp pushes into his mind. 

 

_DON’T EAT OR DRINK ANYTHING THEY GIVE YOU._

 

Where.... Where did that come from? 

 

“But, uh, I think I’ll pass this time.”

 

The man smiles, and if his teeth are a little too sharp, Hank doesn’t comment. 

 

“Let me know if you change your mind,” the man says. “Please, look around, make yourself comfortable. I shan’t be long.” He disappears behind a heavy curtain. 

 

Hank exhales slowly. He’s retired. Hasn’t been a detective for years. But Hank’s got a good intuition. Always trusts his gut. 

 

That man. Is not a man. 

 

Not even human, Hank would bet money on it. 

 

He’s heard the whispers. He knows they live among them. He’s never met one that he knows of for certain, but he’s sensed it before. 

 

He never really paid attention until Cole passed away. 

 

Then the supernatural started to become more appealing. 

 

Like there was something more than the endless cycle of life and death. 

 

Hank wanders round the small shop, looking at all the different plants, some he can name and some he can’t. Some he’s never seen before in his life. They look almost otherworldly. Translucent petals, tiny veins that seem to pulse with a heartbeat. 

 

One vine reaches to curl round his wrist and he jerks away with a low cry. 

 

“Petunia!” The man calls. “Stop pestering customers!” 

 

The vine curls back in on itself as if sulking. 

 

Hank knows for certain that the owner of this florist is one of them. The Fair Folk. 

 

He’s... Not as frightened as he thought he’d be. 

 

After a little while, the man returns with a beautiful bouquet in his arms. There are dew drops on the petals. They sparkle in the warm light of the shop. 

 

“For your son,” the man says gently. “They will last.” 

 

“For how long?” 

 

His smile is wide and mischievous. “A long time.” 

 

Hank nods. “They’re beautiful.” 

 

The man preens and Hank knows he’s grown them himself exactly as Hank wanted. In those short moments he was in the back of the shop, he crafted these petals from rain and stardust. 

 

“How much?” Hank asks, reaching for his wallet. 

 

“One favour,” the man says. 

 

Hank pauses. 

 

That... Could mean trouble. 

 

Owing a favour to the Fair Folk is not something to take lightly. But this man is so kind, and the flowers are so beautiful... 

 

“One favour,” Hank agrees. 

 

He hopes he won’t regret it. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
